


lay down your weapon

by vandalwithoutacause



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Catra's still a cat tho, Childhood Friends, F/F, Fencing AU, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, a little bit of hurt/comfort, and they were ROOMMATES, friends to idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26036227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandalwithoutacause/pseuds/vandalwithoutacause
Summary: Olympic fencing AU? Olympic fencing AU!“En garde,” is all the warning she gets before Catra’s on her, whacking her on the top of her head. Catra cackles. “Come on, I said en garde!” She resets her stance, sinking into half of a lunge to stretch out her legs. She takes a swipe at Adora’s calf just because she can.“What -- what are we even doing?”
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	1. i know a place we can go

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm gonna ask you to suspend your disbelief even more than the show already does and just accept the following assumptions:
> 
> \- You know where Vancouver, BC is? Just pretend that's Etheria now. What happened to that part of Canada, you may ask? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> \- There's no magic in this universe, or if there is it's MEGA rare.  
> \- Also Catra's still a cat person and that doesn't impact her ability to fence at. all.

The flight time from Etheria to Tokyo is 11 hours and 20 minutes, or just long enough to run out of shitty Avengers movies and for both of Catra’s legs to start cramping up, even in business class.

This is, hands down, the bougiest airplane she’s ever flown in. Before takeoff the flight attendant offers her a glass of champagne, from _France_ , which Catra obviously has to accept -- she’s never turned down free booze in her life. As soon as they’re up in the air the same flight attendant comes back around, this time with a rolling cart full of wines Catra can’t pronounce. Yes _, please._

At about the two hour mark, or the end of the first Thor movie, Catra is nursing a gentle buzz just in time for dinner to be served. It comes out on tiny ceramic plates with _metal_ flatware: a weirdly gelatinous, fishy appetizer, then a piece of chicken with impossibly crispy skin -- on a fucking _airplane_ \-- and then there are at least five different breads to choose from so of course Catra takes one of each. The tray that it’s all arranged on comes with tiny salt and pepper shakers, her own miniature bottle of olive oil, and an actual butter dish. After dinner the flight attendant comes back around to offer her a selection of fancy ass chocolates -- one of each again, thank you very much -- 

“Would you like anything to drink with dessert?” and since she’s actually never tried sake before the flight attendant offers to set her up with a tasting flight.

“Jeez, pace yourself Catra, we’ve still got like eight hours left on this flight.”

The seat next to Catra is occupied by a well-built blonde woman. She’s not quite jacked but the lean muscles in her shoulders bunch and relax visibly as she twists in her chair to face Catra. She’s the kind of gorgeous that Catra has gotten used to, with her fathomless gray eyes and her platinum hair pulled into a tight ponytail and the tiniest sliver of midriff peeking out above the waist of her jet black joggers. In one long-fingered hand she cradles a glass of viscous, amber liquid.

Catra rolls her eyes.

“Worry about your own self, Adora. I’m off the hook for the next two weeks.” She lets out a huge yawn, stretching as best she can in her seat. Her ripped-up skinny jeans are already starting to feel like a bad call. “Besides, I wanna pass out for as much of this boring ass flight as possible.”

Adora leans over the barrier between their seats and her jacket catches on the divider, exposing an even greater expanse of smooth skin to the chilly air circulating through the cabin. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing.”

Adora’s eyes light up. “Is that Thor?” and then she flops back into her own space to start scrolling through her screen. “Oh shit, they’ve got all of them.”

Catra grimaces. Adora is clearly in heaven.

“Watch the next one with me,” she says with a grin. “Come on, Catra, it’s even worse than the first one, you’ll love it.”

Catra can’t remember the last time she said no to Adora, so she grumbles out, “Ugh, fine,” and backs out to the main menu of her screen.

It takes a bit of effort to get them synced up but eventually Catra leans back in her seat with her headphones pinching against her ears to watch this terrible movie. She makes it about halfway through before she pulls them off, annoyed at the fit, and falls asleep listening to Adora snort-laugh at something that surely isn’t even actually funny.

She wakes up with a hangover. Catra has no idea how long she’s been out, but when she looks over Adora’s still staring at her screen, still fidgeting with her glass of whiskey.

She stands up from her seat -- it _turns into a bed_ \-- stretches, and shuffles bleary-eyed to the back of the cabin to find the restroom. On her way back Catra raids the little snack stand the flight attendants have set up, grabbing a couple bags of chips and some weird Japanese candies. She chucks half of the assortment at Adora, who she can now see is just finishing the third Thor.

“What the hell, Adora, that’s the only good one, you can’t watch it without me.”

“I got bored. You know I can’t sleep on planes.”

Catra huffs, tucks her pilfered snacks into her seat pocket, and snugs back down under her weirdly fluffy airplane blanket. After a few minutes she feels Adora’s hand fall softly onto her head, flicking playfully at an ear before she starts carding her fingers through her hair. Catra falls back asleep, warm and safe, and her purrs are completely drowned out by the rumble of the airplane as it cuts its smooth path through the dark night sky.

\-----

Catra met Adora when she was about four years old, probably. They grew up together in a shitty little orphanage in the worst part of downtown, under the “care” of some evil bitch all the other orphans had nick-named Shadow Weaver.

Neither of them ever knew their parents. At least Adora’s parents were decent enough to die -- Catra was surrendered at birth. For as much of her childhood as she can remember, Catra learned all about how _her kind_ were always having more kids than they could take care of, abandoning them on the state’s doorstep to soak up tax dollars. She grew up understanding that she was just one more burden on an already overburdened system.

When Adora turned nine, there was an adoption scare -- that might not be the healthiest way to think about it, Adora’s life probably would have been way better if she’d been adopted. But Catra’s definitely wouldn’t have. When the paperwork fell through and Adora came back to the orphanage Catra made her promise that they’d always stick by each other, no matter what happened.

And they had. For the next few years they became a package deal, kicking and screaming any time someone showed interest in one over the other. They made themselves too much of a nightmare to foster separately and, once Shadow Weaver realized she would have no luck prying Adora away from Catra, eventually she just gave up on them both.

At 16, Adora ratted Shadow Weaver out to her friend Glimmer’s mom.

For most of their childhood Catra did her best to shelter Adora from as much of Shadow Weaver’s abuse as possible, but as they got older it grew harder to hide the bruises. It came to a head one night, when they fell asleep cuddled up together in Adora’s tiny bunk. Shadow Weaver had always been very strict about any displays of affection. She was especially hard on Catra and Adora, and they knew better than to fall asleep in the same bed.

(Catra knows now that there’s a block between her and the specifics of this memory. It hides in the back of her mind, hazy and indistinct. She has better words for this feeling, now, she knows what PTSD is. But for several years --

She can recall a tight grip around her tail, waking up to the pain searing up her back as she’s hauled backwards out of Adora’s arms. Yelling -- Shadow Weaver’s nasty hiss and Adora’s voice pitched low and weirdly dangerous. She remembers huddling up tight against Adora’s chest, later, sitting on Glimmer’s porch, shivering in Adora’s gentle embrace. She remembers salt on her tongue.)

Glimmer’s mom rained a special kind of fury down on Shadow Weaver after that, and within the month the orphanage was shut down.

Rather than risk separation, Catra and Adora both filed for emancipation together. They stayed with Glimmer and her mom over the summer. Angela helped them get set up with an apartment, and soon enough they were busting their asses in various part-time jobs to pay the bills.

Looking back it was a pretty normal summer, just like what every other kid on the planet got to enjoy. But for Catra it was magical, and impossible, and terrifying. The freedom was incredible, she had no idea what to do with herself. Suddenly there was no one to come looming around the corner to tell her how worthless she was, there were no asshole teenagers waiting to ambush her for whatever change she’d managed to scrape together. It was just her and Adora, working odd jobs all day and curling into each other in Adora’s bed at night, together in the quiet wonder of a freedom they’d never thought to fight for.

That was the summer Catra carved off a chunk of her newfound breathing room and spent it taking a good, hard look at how she felt about Adora. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with what she saw. Adora was everything to her, had been for most of Catra’s life. She was the sun around which all of Catra revolved, too bright to look at for very long. Love didn’t feel like a big enough word, and even with what they already had together Catra was left with the feeling that she somehow wanted more.

But she wasn’t going to feed the butterflies in her stomach on the corpse of the single most important relationship in her life. So Catra took that feeling and she shoved it down deep into the darkest corner of herself, where she pretended that it didn’t fester.

In the autumn of their senior year, when Catra was 17 and Adora was only a few months behind her, they applied to all the same colleges together. It was probably a little unhealthy, but Catra hadn’t yet learned about codependency. Against the odds they both managed to get partial scholarships at Bright Moon University. They were pretty used to the grind by then so it wasn’t all that bad working a little more than part time to close the gap -- well, okay, definitely more than part time.

Adora fell in love with fencing almost as soon as she got to college. The Bright Moon Fencing Club snapped her up on day one, before she’d even finished getting her stuff settled in their hilariously small dorm room (seriously how was this room _even smaller_ than their old shoebox apartment?). She was immediately good at it, as was the case with pretty much everything Adora tried to do. Besides, she’d always seemed to like hitting things and yelling, so it wasn’t really a surprise.

By sophomore year Adora had an athletic scholarship to go with her academic one, and every day she was begging Catra to come to “just one meeting, come on Catra, I know you’ll love it!”

Catra had never learned how to say no to Adora. Towards the end of sophomore year she finished the last of her gen-eds and went to her first fencing club meeting, and then later that night she went to her first fencing club party, and really that was what sealed it.

Fencing was shockingly fun, and Catra was basically made for it. She’d always been extremely agile and perfectly ambidextrous on top of that. She was the whole club’s new favorite practice buddy just for the opportunity to take a turn against a lefty, and swapping hands mid-bout was a pretty neat party trick.

Disaster struck their senior year when Adora made the Etherian Olympic team -- but Catra didn’t. That was their first summer apart in their entire lives, it was supposed to be their first summer together in off-campus housing, _and_ Catra had just declared for graduate school on top of it.

They didn’t talk for… a lot of that summer. Making the Olympic team was awesome or whatever, and of course Catra was incredibly proud of Adora, but… it felt a little too much like the beginning of the end of… whatever they were anymore.

When Adora came back at the end of the summer without a medal, Catra was there to comfort her while she ate her way through most of a Ben & Jerry’s franchise. She was still there when Adora finally emerged from her funk late that fall. Fencing never got much attention at the Olympics anyway, so by then the world had forgotten about the young upstart saberist who had so much potential and not enough follow through.

Life resumed. Catra started her Master’s program in clinical psychology and Adora went back to working at the gym. Making the Olympic team pretty much guaranteed her a coaching spot at whatever fencing club she liked. Between her modest salary and Catra’s grad student stipend, there was finally enough financial stability to allow them both to relax for a while.

Looking back, it was probably a little weird that neither of them ever really dated. Catra messed around from time to time just to scratch the itch, but anything longer than a couple of pleasant evenings never managed to stick. Whenever she let herself think about it, on those rare nights when Adora stayed out late and Catra came home early, she wondered if her heart was even hers to give.

Adora -- didn’t really make any sense. She’d qualified as knock-out gorgeous pretty much as soon as she hit puberty. Everywhere she went she left a trail of broken hearts behind her, of all genders. She could’ve had anyone she wanted, but she just… didn’t.

They never really talked about it.

Three years later, Catra was a licensed therapist working with an LGBT youth shelter downtown and getting ready to start down the road to her PhD (which, after a pretty heavy heart-to-heart with her advisor and then _another_ one with her therapist, had shifted to focus on adolescent psychology). She was still living with the other half of her beating heart walking around like she owned the place. Adora came home one day and let her know -- she was making another run at the Olympic team.

“I think you should try too, Catra.”

“Adora…”

“You’re just as good as you were back in college -- better! Come on, try out with me. Please?”

It probably wasn’t a good idea, but Catra pushed back starting her PhD program by a few months and gave herself permission to try this bullshit one more time. She’d kept up with the sport in the years after Adora’s first Olympics, joining the odd tournament whenever her schedule allowed. She’d never learned how to stop competing.

It was completely insane, in every possible way, but they both made it.

\-----

Now Catra is 24 years old and tossing her over-stuffed duffle bag onto the twin bed that dominates her tiny hotel room. There’s just enough space between the bed and the entryway to squeeze past, and the door to the bathroom definitely hits against the mattress when she opens it. She sighs. She really thought she was done with the shitty dorm room phase of her life.

A few minutes later, Adora pokes her head in. Catra left the door cracked, figuring she’d come by eventually. She’s just finished packing her little dresser with the last of her clothes, tucking a short stack of undershirts in next to her spare footwraps.

“You can come in, Adora.”

Adora walks, yawning, into the middle of the room. She hasn’t changed yet, still wearing her rumpled travel clothes with her hair slipping out of her once-tight ponytail. She looks pretty cute.

“This is weird,” she says.

“What? Is your room different? Did you get a bigger room, I swear to fucking God--”

Adora’s laughing, holding her hands up and out to slow Catra down. “No, no, I’m pretty sure it’s the same. It’s just weird being separate.”

“Hm.” Catra leans against the dresser, arms crossed. She frowns, worrying her bottom lip with a fang.

The Etherian delegation has its own wing of the Olympic village, which is actually just a bunch of conjoined hotel buildings that have been sectioned off for them for the next few weeks. They got a bit of a tour on the way in, so Catra knows the rough layout. They seem to have been organized by sport: this hall is mostly fencers and their coaches, and she’s pretty sure the rest of the floor is all just the women’s basketball team based on how short she felt in the elevator on the way up.

She knows she’s only a few doors down from Adora’s room but… Even though the money’s been better lately, back home they’re not quite well off enough to justify a two-bedroom. So both of their beds are still shoved together in their cramped little studio apartment. There’s just no reason to waste their money on some overpriced fancy-ass condo downtown. Some mornings Catra wakes up with her mouth full of Adora’s hair and soft bare feet tickling at her shins. So -- This will be the farthest apart they’ve slept in decades, except for that one summer four years ago.

Catra shrugs, bumping her shoulder into Adora’s on her way out of the room. “Come on, I can hear your stomach growling. Let’s go get dinner.”

\----

That night, Catra tosses and turns on her uncomfortable little bed. She’s got the AC cranked and can’t decide whether to swaddle herself up in her blankets or chuck the whole mess onto the floor. Eventually she gives up. Alone in her dark room, Catra stares at the bright screen of her phone.

_hey catra_

She almost cracks herself in the mouth when it vibrates out of her hold. After a moment, she smirks.

_hey adora,_ _can’t sleep?_

_yeah_ _..._ _you too?_

_yup_

She lets the phone fall flat on her chest, staring up at the ceiling of her tiny, shitty hotel room. She’s old enough now to know about codependency. She’s old enough to know better.

The phone buzzes irritatingly right over her heart.

_can i come over?_

She squeezes her eyes shut, sighs, then taps out--

_sure_


	2. somebody hurt you

They’ve got a few days before any of the fencing competitions start up, which Catra spends settling in to life in this weird little micro-city.

As much as it chafes to admit, she really is happier with a routine. So every morning Catra hauls herself out of bed and heads down to the ground floor for breakfast. She sits by herself in a room full of people from every corner of the world and she stares at a plate of eggs, or a piece of fish, or just a whole pile of bacon until the coffee kicks in. Everyone who’s ever met her knows to leave her the fuck alone in the morning. Even known hard-headed asshole Lonnie doesn’t mess with her before her second cup of coffee.

After breakfast she meets up with her team in the gym for practice, which eats up the whole rest of the day really. The epee team is a complete fucking trainwreck and it’s still anyone’s guess how they made it to the Olympics. Lonnie’s their captain and she’s a strong enough fencer, if a little too conservative by Catra’s standards. But Adora’s brand new to the team, brought in as a last minute substitution for Kyle, who was hands down their best fencer before he was taken out of commission by fucking _carpal tunnel_. Kyle’s now their assistant coach alongside Entrapta, and honestly Catra is so grateful for him. There’s no one else on earth Catra would trust to pick apart her opponent’s weaknesses, but trying to actually understand what the fuck Entrapta is saying is its own special kind of hell.

After practice she’s been going to dinner with Adora and sometimes Lonnie. The first couple of nights they stayed within the hotel bounds as they all got over the jet lag, but recently they’ve started to venture out into Tokyo at night. At the end of all that, exhausted, Catra goes back to her room to shower and watch weird Japanese game shows on the tiny little TV for a couple of hours.

She had thought, hoped, that rooming separately for a couple of weeks might help her break her Adora addiction. But every night her phone lights up, buzzing, on her night stand. She always answers, “ok” or “yes” or “sure,” when Adora asks if she can come over.

A week into this thing and Adora still hasn’t slept in her own damn bed, not even once.

So she omitted the first step in her new routine, really. Before she crawls out of bed to go get breakfast, when her first alarm starts blowing up her phone on her nightstand, Catra rolls over from where she’s tucked up against Adora’s chest. She spits out a mouthful of Adora’s hair, and she spends a few moments staring down at her.

Alone-but-not-alone in her hotel room, Catra lets herself really feel, and all that she comes up with is just more and more disgusted with herself.

\-----

The days pass her by like she’s standing still, and suddenly Catra’s watching Adora get ready for the team saber tournament.

Each team has a different coach’s box set up on their side of the piste, with a handful of seats for teammates and other support staff. Catra leans up against the barrier they’ve constructed around Adora’s side of the arena, sighing.

Saber is somehow both boring and way too fast to follow. There are so damn many stupid rules. Academically, Catra knows that its historical context is cavalry-based combat, which is why pretty much everything above the waist is fair game. For whatever reason this translates to combatants running at each other, screaming, and from there it's just a mess of hack and slash and it feels like about 90% of the time the refs discard the action anyway. She still doesn’t really get all of the right-of-way rules.

So who the fuck knows what’s really going on with this match.

When it’s Adora’s turn to fence her team is already down a point. That’s rough in epee, but the momentum swings so wildly in saber. Catra’s seen Adora come back from a five point deficit, which is just insane. Now, Adora charges to match her opponent and they come together, thunderous. Right of way is bullshit, truly, they must both have it -- but the ref calls the action in favor of Adora this time.

Adora’s always been fun to watch on piste. She yells, like, constantly, in a really nice and angry way that makes some of the hairs on the back of Catra’s neck stand up. She’s not as twitchy as a lot of other fencers -- she’s ready to move at a moment’s notice, sure, but they’re efficient and decisive movements. She has a presence, an energy when she’s all geared up and very clearly set on winning.

Catra watches the two fencers trade the point back and forth for a while. Eventually she loses track of the action and she turns away, lost and kind of bored. There are nine bouts in team saber, she’ll have plenty of time to catch up.

Adora comes off the piste at the end of her bout and stands next to Catra. Tension roots her to the ground like a live wire, crackling. She’s got her glove balled up in one hand and the way she’s wringing it makes the cords of her neck stand out stark against her flushed skin.

Catra turns to watch one of Adora’s teammates fence for a bit. Huntara’s good by non-olympic standards but she’s just a little too slow for this level of competition. To be honest the Etherian saber team isn’t ranked super highly; Adora doesn’t really have a shot at a medal here. Her real hopes are pinned on the individual tournament that starts tomorrow.

After a few more bouts, Adora goes back in. Her team heads into the last couple of rounds three points down despite her best efforts. It’s not enough, and they wash out of the tournament in the quarterfinal.

Adora doesn’t come knocking on Catra’s door that night, doesn’t climb into her tiny bed. After a while, curiosity gets the better of Catra, and she shoots her a text:

_you ok?_

Adora is quicker to respond than Catra expected, lets her know she’s just screwing around in the gym to burn off some nervous energy. Catra gives it a little bit of thought, then she heads down to their converted practice arena.

“Hey Adora.”

Catra’s wearing a fresh set of yoga pants and the rumpled t-shirt she had planned to go to bed in when she finds Adora down in the gym, lunging at a pell with her practice saber. She barely glances over as Catra walks in. It’s way too late for this shit.

Catra grabs a foil off the wall and pulls on a loaner mask. She snatches up another one and tosses it at Adora as soon as she stops her drills long enough to acknowledge her. Adora scrunches up her nose.  
  
“Well that’s not fair, I’ve been down here for an hour already.”

“That’s a you problem,” Catra advises. “Put the mask on, Adora.”

Grimacing, Adora complies.

“En garde,” is all the warning she gets before Catra’s on her, whacking her on the top of her head. Catra cackles. “Come on, I said en garde!” She resets her stance, sinking into half of a lunge to stretch out her legs. She takes a swipe at Adora’s calf just because she can.

“What -- what are we even doing?”

Catra shrugs. “Just try not to get hit. Maybe try to hit me.”

She can’t see Adora scowl through the dark mesh that covers her face, but it's enough to know that she is. Catra straightens up and circles around to her side, tossing her foil from one hand to the other as she sizes Adora up. She hops forward, dropping into a crouch, and flicks the tip of her foil out -- it whiffs through the air just short of Adora’s knee.

She would be breaking all of the rules if she could be bothered to play by any of them.

Adora starts taking her a bit more seriously when Catra beats her saber out of alignment and steps in to rake the tip of her foil loudly across the mesh of Adora’s mask. “Two-zip, Adora. What’s the matter, not in the mood?”

They dance back and forth for a little while. Adora clearly hates the way Catra’s moving around her in a slow circle. Her body gives her away as she turns to adjust for Catra’s changing position, her shoulders stiff and her feet restless. She shuffles awkwardly to keep her point on line with Catra, and when Catra steps in before she can get the angle right and clips her across the mask with the guard of her foil, and Adora’s head jerks back--

She drops her saber and grabs Catra around the waist, tackling her down to the mat.

They fall together, Catra flat on her back and laughing as Adora’s mask bounces harmlessly off of hers. For a moment they lie still, then she’s scrambling to pull her mask up over her head almost at the same time as Adora yanks her own off, and suddenly they’re wrestling in earnest.

It has nothing to do with anything Adora should be working on right now, and it’s actually probably a pretty bad idea before such a big tournament. Anything could happen down here, Adora could tweak a muscle or bruise a finger, any little thing could throw her off her game. But it's so painfully obvious that she needs this, needs a moment of mindless physicality to pull her out of her own head for just a little while.

Therapist-Catra gets it. But the Catra who’s known Adora since she was too small to be any kind of real threat, aching with growing pains and her eyes red-rimmed from crying out a rage she was far too young to understand -- that’s the Catra who can’t bring herself to deny Adora this.

Adora is fit on a bad day and terrifically strong the rest of the time. To the casual observer she can’t possibly make sense with a saber in her hand and her biceps about as big around as Catra’s calves. But here on this squishy blue mat with sweat running down into her bright gray eyes -- here she makes all the sense in the world.

Catra puts up a good fight, does her best to dodge and wriggle out of Adora’s stubborn grip, but it feels almost predetermined when Adora loops an arm around one of Catra’s thighs, smooth, effortless, and throws all of her weight into the hold. In a matter of seconds Catra is trapped, panting, with her flushed face squished into the mat and one ear folded awkwardly under her cheek.

She huffs out a sigh and swats Adora on the butt. “Ugh,” she grunts, “you got me. Now get the fuck off, you’re fucking heavy.”

She can’t see Adora smirk but she can hear it in her voice when she laughs a little, says, “No,” and then starts fucking _tickling her side_ like an _asshole_ \--

“Ah--fuck you, Adora!” Catra can’t stop laughing, can’t get a good enough grip on Adora to break her hold. She sinks all ten of her claws into the mat and _pulls_ , drags herself away from her tormentor, shoving Adora back with a bare foot to her face. “Fuck _off_!”

Adora falls back onto the mat, laughing her stupid head off. Eventually she calms down, and Catra cautiously scoots herself over to sit just out of reach.

Adora sighs out into the quiet, empty gym, “Thanks.”

Catra smiles. “Of course, idiot.”

\-----

The individual’s tournament is… hard to watch. 

Catra’s back in the Etherian coach’s box, standing with her arms crossed next to Huntara, but to be honest she has no idea what Huntara even looks like right now. Every ounce of her attention has been wrung out like an over-ripe lemon and concentrated into a tall, bitter glass of _oh fuck_.

The tournament has not been going well for Adora. She made it through the round of 16 and the quarterfinals, but failed to qualify for the gold medal match, and now she’s stuck fighting tooth and nail for bronze.

Or last place, as Adora surely considers it.

There’s a minute left in the last of three bouts, and Adora’s already down three points. Her opponent knows she’s desperate and is using that to trip her into the stupidest mistakes -- but Adora has no choice but to drive the action right now. She’s practically running down the piste, firing herself down range point-first. Her opponent’s parry-riposte couldn’t be more textbook, and they jab Adora right between the ribs.

Catra’s ears flatten against her head at the sound of Adora’s enraged scream. When the judge calls the point against Adora, Catra digs the tip of a claw into her bottom lip.

Anywhere else, any other tournament -- Adora could recover, she could bring it back. But this is _the_ tournament, and Adora’s opponent wants it just as bad as she does, Catra can see it in the way the tension rolls off their body in waves. They won’t give Adora the chance to close the gap. 

Catra bites down on her nail, gently. 30 seconds left on the clock. It’s basically over.

Still, she stands there next to Huntara, and they both watch this prancing asshole run Adora up and down the piste, as the seconds dribble out of the clock and wash Adora’s hopes down the nearest drain.

When Adora comes off the piste her face is flushed red and tear-streaked and she is as frighteningly silent as she was the night they finally broke free of Shadow Weaver’s nightmare orphanage.

\-----

Later that night, Catra goes out looking for Adora. She isn’t in her room, or if she is then she’s not answering the door and Catra isn’t quite desperate enough yet to jimmy the lock. She shoots Adora a text:

_where you at_

It only sits for a moment before “delivered” turns into “read” and then there are three little dots for… kind of a while.

_at a bar_

_cool, i could use a beer. what bar?_

The ellipses hang for another minute. Adora clearly thinks she wants to be alone right now, but Catra has lived with her for twenty whole years so she figures by now she can get away with claiming to know better. Eventually Adora texts her an address, and Catra sets off into the dark, warm evening.

Tokyo is portrayed a certain way in pretty much any media -- all tiny, steamy streets lit up bright by a whole mess of neon signage competing for literally anyone’s attention, people pressed together like salty little sardines as they shuffle from the izakaya to the ramen shop at the corner. Catra is disappointed, and honestly kind of impressed, by just how accurate this portrayal turns out to be.

She walks down the street with her hands shoved in her pockets and doesn't make eye contact with any of the drunk, singing, disheveled businessmen and women on their way to wherever they’re going. She considers trying to bum a cigarette off someone but… not tonight.

She winds up in front of a pretty classy-looking little beer bar. The sliding glass doors in front of it are spotless, and it looks quiet inside. If this is the right place, Adora must have done a bit of googling to find it. It actually looks like the kind of bar Catra could spend some time in.

The doors roll open at her touch -- everything she’s encountered so far in Tokyo just seems to _work_ , and work well. The bar is the centerpiece of the building’s cozy little open-floor basement; Catra can just see Adora sitting in front of it, coddling a beer in a short glass and fidgeting with something metal. She’s alone down there.

Catra ducks downstairs, sliding into the empty barstool next to her. “Well shit, princess, this is just sad.”

“What--go away if you’re gonna be mean, Catra.” Adora rucks up her shoulders, curling protectively around her little beer and her little bowl of nuts and her… nutcracker, apparently?

Catra doesn’t go away. She settles herself in a bit more comfortably and calls out, “Sumimasen!” The barkeep, a sharply dressed lizard dude, brings over the beer list and she orders herself something hopefully bright and citrusy.

They sit together in silence for a moment. After a little while, Catra bops into Adora’s shoulder. “Hey. I get it. Losing blows.”

Adora lets out a little grunt, staring into her drink. Catra lets it go for a bit, waiting for the barkeep to finish pulling her beer. He slides over a short, thick-walled glass -- maybe 8 ounces -- and when Catra takes a sip it turns out actually pretty crisp. Not bad, Japan. She gives him a thumbs up and watches him nod and grin and get back to wiping down his bar.

“Adora.” Catra reaches over, pulling one of Adora’s hands away from her beer. She’s just going to make it warm up faster doing that. She winds their fingers together. “You know you’re not done yet, right?”

Adora sighs, heavy, and looks an awful lot like she might plant her face down on the bar. Catra doesn’t let herself think it's cute.

“I’m getting _old_ , Catra.”

“Pfft--”

Adora raps her knuckles lightly against Catra’s. “Don’t laugh at me, I’m gonna be 25 soon. I’ll be 28 by the next Olympics. That’s… that’s kind of it, for me.”

“28 isn’t old for fencers, Adora. If you were in, like, I don’t know gymnastics or something then yeah, you’d be retired by now. But you’re still one of the youngest people on either of our teams. You can probably keep doing this for 12 more years, if that’s what you want.” She looks at Adora, shrewd. “Is that what you want?”

“I--” Adora cuts herself off, presses Catra’s hand to the bartop. “It’s unethical to practice on your friends, Catra.”

Oh, so it’s going to be like that. Catra pulls her hand away. “There’s a difference between practicing and _caring_ , Adora. But if you want to just sit here and pout and drink, then fine, I can do that too.” She slams her beer back and then catches the bartender’s eye. Before he can make his way back to them she gestures to their two glasses and says, “Kore, kudasai,” and he nods and sets about bringing them another round.

Adora is staring at her. “I didn’t know you spoke Japanese,” she says, with her brow scrunched endearingly and her face tangled up in confusion.

Catra softens. “I don’t, dummy. I only learned a couple phrases. ‘Kore’ just means ‘this,’ and ‘kudasai’ is just ‘please’. I probably said it wrong anyway.”

“I didn’t know you could say please, either,” Adora jokes.

Catra's smile catches on her teeth and tears into a sharp grin. “I can in the right circumstances.” She cackles at the blush that rises immediately on Adora’s pretty face as she drowns her embarrassment in the dregs of her drink.

The bartender brings their next round over and for a little while Catra just watches Adora mope into her beer. Eventually she gets bored and rolls her eyes and shoves against Adora’s shoulder. “You’ve still got the damn epee tournament, you idiot! Stop whining! Look -- I know we kinda suck, but if you don’t completely give up then you’ve still got another shot at a medal, you huge dumbass.”

Adora smiles a little, or at least she tries to. Her heart has never been in epee, but a medal is a medal, and the thought of another chance does seem to perk her up somewhat.

They stay for a couple more rounds before Catra calls it. The beers are tiny but Adora’s always been a total lightweight -- “Hey, I already had one before you got here!” -- and Catra can tell it's time to pour her into bed before she fully transforms into Even More Emotional Adora.

With her arm slung over Catra’s shoulder and way too much of her dead, drunk weight leaning up against her, Adora stumbles back to the hotel. She’s singing under her breath, some terrible pop song, and she wastes most of the trip back trying to get Catra to join in. Adora’s certainly not the only slurred voice echoing through the crowded streets of Tokyo.

Catra puts Adora to bed in her own room for once. She pulls out a set of pajamas and lays them, still neatly folded, at the foot of the bed. Adora’s already drifting off by the time Catra’s taken her hair out of its ponytail and helped her out of her shoes.

For a moment her hand lingers at Adora’s forehead, as if to brush a few stray hairs out of her face. She steps back, sighing.

“Good night, Adora.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've managed to write a single Catradora fic without including at least one wrestling scene.


End file.
